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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28999146">long you live and high you fly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph'>crimsonepitaph</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soldiers Verse [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Child Abuse, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, traumatic event</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:01:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,548</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28999146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared and Jensen continue working through their issues, both together, and on their own. But getting to the place they want to be is difficult.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soldiers Verse [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/786189</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>long you live and high you fly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Author's note #1</b>Title is from Pink Floyd's <i>Breathe</i>. I think I'm running out of songs. </p><p><b>Author's note #2</b>Thank you to Betty for the beta! She embarked on these characters' journey a long time ago, and continues to watch over them with the same attention to detail, for which I am very grateful.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <b>JARED</b>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>It's quiet. For very few moments, it's quiet. The voices are talking to him. And what they're saying is so clear. He should die. He brings only pain. He has no purpose, he has no space in the world that he fills well enough. This tiny bathroom. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It doesn't seem real.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It seems like he's in a movie. Sharp, stark white. Streaks of red. Handprints, blotchy, smudged.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So…striking. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Out of the ordinary. Jared knew who he lived with - he knew his father had a violent streak, but this - this is different. Jared can't understand it. He watches a small drop of blood make its way slowly down the curve of the sink, tiny river of crimson against porcelain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The side of the bath tub is cold. The modest, year-old gray carpet is stained. Jared had ruined it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>What had blood tasted like?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Copper, and fury, and the most exhilarating thing Jared had ever had. Physical. He wanted to scream, and cry, and stop, all at the same time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He'd taken a punch. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He'd crossed the line enough to get his head smacked into the tall, sturdy wooden wardrobe in the bedroom, the one that Jared's father always despised. It had been a gift from his mom’s parents - tiny, intricate details on the doors, delicate, carved by someone who had loved the craft. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His father almost smiles when he sees it smeared with blood.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jared’s. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And still, he wasn’t quite sure what was happening. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The beatings before - bruises, and emptiness. Regularities in Jared’s otherwise uninteresting life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But this.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This. Jared didn't feel human. He didn't feel like anything anymore. High. A desire to laugh like a madman.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The way his father had looked at him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With such hate. With such pain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Afterwards, with such regret.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The horrible regret of knowing he'd do it again. He'd drink more to forget. It would be worse next time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But the bone, cracking, Jared, screaming, like he'd never done. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>This time - truly a victim. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Jared isn't that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>So what is he?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When he looks into his father's eyes, when he sees rage, when the blows his father lands never seem to reach the right spot? Until. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>One.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jared doesn't know how something can hurt so much and still bring with it the immense relief it had. Finally. Finally. Something that had made sense.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pain.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The bone cracks. A white hot flash of agony. Left arm. It's fine.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The edge of the boot catches the space between his ribs as he slides down the wall. He can't breathe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But it's alright. This way, he can't feel it. The pain. When his father continues. When Jared sees the look in his eyes, out of focus, mechanical, emotionless exorcism. It's alright. Tears escape him, as much as he tries. Jared doesn't admit to himself that they do. He focuses on the rhythmic cadence. He tries. It's comforting. Soft thud. His field of vision raises. There's a mirror on the other side of the room.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jared doesn't see himself.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Only his father's arched back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's being pulled by the collar only to be downed again. Blinking becomes infuriating, warm liquid trickling down between his eyelashes, and Jared tries, he really does, to clear the cobwebs from his eyes, but he can't. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His arms...maybe it would help. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nothing does.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jared doesn't really understand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How he got here. On the floor of the bathroom smelling like vomit, creamy white tiles stained. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn't understand for hours.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He lays there wondering what had happened. Who it had happened to. Because it couldn't have been him. Yeah, Jared's father would occasionally get a punch in, but surely, the Jared who he knew himself to be would go toe to toe with him, would never have let this happen, get it to this point.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It hadn't happened. It didn't. That was the only logical way out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But the quiet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The quiet where he can only hear himself scream in pain when he tries to get up. The suffocating smell. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's him, he realizes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that's when it shuts down. When the alarm system stops ringing. When the quiet transitions from the outside to his mind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He reaches for the edge of the toilet seat. His left arm hangs uselessly to his side. It doesn't matter. He takes stock. He drags himself up. More blood to clean up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He'll get it done.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jared doesn't know who he was before this. The hours before this morning never existed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Coldness seeps through him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He hears something.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He shakes his head slightly. Gasps when that makes everything spiral. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It doesn't come back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The breath.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The clarity.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jared drowns, suffocates under the weight of the blackness in front of his eyes. He oscillates between thrashing around and waiting. Accepting.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In truth, he does neither.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But there's so much he does only in his mind.</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>Jared wakes up with a muffled scream, caught between the cotton covers damped with sweat. He barely has time to open his eyes before he hears a voice beside him.</p><p>Soft. Unnerved.</p><p>“Jay?”</p><p>It takes a few seconds for Jared to come back from the nightmare into the room with Jensen, to follow the thread of Jensen’s voice into the first rays of morning sun seeping through the window.</p><p>He blinks a few times.</p><p>Tries to steady his heartbeat. He kicks at the covers, tries to untangle himself. Trapped.</p><p>“Jay, talk to me.”</p><p>Pressing.</p><p>But not touching. Jensen must know, or guess, what the dream was about. Touch would feel like a blowtorch taken to Jared’s skin, delicate, tender lines that would just mark in red all the cracks that that threaten to open from the inside.</p><p>Jared swallows, breathes, doesn’t feel like he can actually, <em>really</em>, talk. What he feels in this moment is more primal than that. He doesn’t have words for it, just sounds, and needs minutes to descend back into normal.</p><p>“’<em>Fine</em>,” he grits out, more out of reflex than intention to calm Jensen.</p><p>Jensen doesn’t reply.</p><p>Just - <em>shifts</em>.</p><p>Jared hears, feels the rustling beside him.</p><p>Then silence. Stillness.</p><p>The sound of heavy breaths. Jared’s.</p><p>Why does it always have to be like this?</p><p>A production.</p><p>Jensen, knowing.</p><p>Jared’s thoughts slow down. Little by little, the room around him recovers its outline. The warmth brought in by the light, seeping into his skin unhurriedly. The alarm on his phone.</p><p>The first strums in <em>Led Zeppelin</em>’s <em>In my time of dying</em>.</p><p>Jensen thinks Jared’s choice of song is somewhere between morbid and funny.</p><p>Jared reaches for his phone before the song gets into the blatantly loud portion with the drums.</p><p>The movement makes him feel real again.</p><p>Jared turns his head to Jensen, who watches the ceiling with the interest he’d scan the crowd at an assignment with the president. Jared slides his left hand on the sheets until it meets Jensen’s, threads their knuckles together.</p><p>“Sorry,” is what Jared first says. If Jared did sheepish, this would be it. But he doesn’t. It’s just guilt.</p><p>Jensen doesn’t answer. Just tightens the grip on Jared’s hand.</p><p>A cold shiver runs down Jared’s spine.</p><p>There is wet fabric, at the base of his neck and down his back.</p><p>“Dream or memory?” Jensen asks.</p><p>Jared doesn’t answer.</p><p>He doesn’t know which is worse.</p><p>So he turns towards Jensen, squeezes his hand one last time, and presses a kiss onto his cheek. This is what he intends to do, at least. He ends up anchored with his forehead pressed awkwardly into Jensen’s temple, a moment during which he doesn’t know whether it’s his own center of gravity failing him, or Jensen pulling him in.</p><p>Both, maybe.</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>JENSEN</b>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>“Tell me how it gets better.”</p><p>Beaver just looks at him. Jensen wants his counsellor to tell him how to fix it. Even though he knows Beaver won’t…can’t.</p><p>But Jensen truly wants to know. How will this work, he and Jared, who they are, together and apart, and it doesn’t change no matter how much they try? You can’t make two chemical solutions react differently to each other just because you badly want to.</p><p>Jared woke up from a nightmare this morning, sweaty, still terrified.</p><p>And Jensen had just laid there.</p><p>Pretended that seeing Padalecki like that wasn’t doing a number on him. Watching him go through it…the repeated memories and dreams, the guilt, the trauma – the problem’s not that it exists. It’s that it doesn’t change. No matter how hard Jared tries. No matter how much effort he puts into it.</p><p>And Jensen knows, on some level, Jared, or for that matter, <em>him</em> - they can’t be <em>fixed</em>.</p><p>Doesn’t there have to be a point where everything will click into order? When the tightness in his chest will not follow him around all day, fueled by all the things Jensen imagines Jared dreamed about, or worse, is doing to deal with it. When Jared will stay, and he will tell Jensen what’s wrong.</p><p>“I don’t know that it gets better,” Beaver answers, and Jensen is grateful for the honesty. “It gets different.”</p><p>“That - that is not very helpful.”</p><p>“You’re angry, Sarge, and believe you me, I get it. You seem to go through the same thing - cyclically - good times, bad times, and kick is, the bad times come after the same things. Which makes you even more frustrated. Because you’ve <em>talked about it</em>.”</p><p>Beaver infuses both sarcasm and the frustration Jensen feels in the last words.</p><p>“You can’t ask Sergeant Padalecki to change,” Beaver declares.</p><p>Well, yeah. He got that.</p><p>However, to Jensen’s surprise, Beaver continues talking. He thought this was the <em>tough luck, can’t manufacture another GI Joe </em>kind of advice, <em>suck it up</em>.</p><p>“Question: you love Padalecki?”</p><p>That’s not a question.</p><p>That’s a certainty.</p><p>Jensen doesn’t even bother responding.</p><p>“You love him enough to see the worst things in him, and to see him go through the worst. But I don’t think you love him enough to show him those parts of you.”</p><p>Jensen looks up from where he’d been staring at his hands.</p><p>What the -</p><p>“I - “ he starts to protest, stance changing, fight mode activated.</p><p>“Oh, no, Sergeant, you don’t have to convince me,” Beaver interrupts Jensen before he even has a chance to get started. “And I may have even chosen a poor word there, because it’s trust you’re not feeling, I believe.”</p><p>Jensen’s dumbfounded. He…trusts Jared.</p><p>He does.</p><p>He says as much.</p><p>Beaver leans in. If he were a more dramatic man, he’d had taken off his glasses, and looked at Jensen like the fate of the universe rested upon Jensen understanding. As it is, he just tilts forward a little, sharpens his tone just enough for it to be authoritative. “Okay, listen to me, ‘cause this ain’t gonna be easy to hear,” he starts, and Jensen thinks, <em>shit</em>. “In the field, yes. There’s no doubt about it that Padalecki’s the guy you want with you. I’ve heard the stories, and hearing you talk about him, and knowing you, I believe them. But here - where the bullets ain’t flying - do you trust that Padalecki has what it takes to build a life with you?” Beaver shifts in his chair. “Or, put another way - you think he can handle those parts of you we talked about without making a run for it?”</p><p>Jensen laughs mirthlessly.</p><p>“Oh, he’d run.”</p><p>Beaver raises an eyebrow in reply.</p><p>But Jensen doesn’t know how to continue.</p><p>Doesn’t know if Jared would run into the hardest wall he could find and self-destruct, or if he’d run to greet the penguins - the way he’d so enthusiastically proclaimed that day in the hospital - and come back.</p><p>“Think about it, Sergeant Ackles. It’s important you address this.”</p><p>Jensen knows the answer, but he still asks, stupidly, “Why?”</p><p>Beaver answers bluntly. “Because what’s happening with Sergeant Padalecki isn’t bothering you as much as the fear that, put in a reverse position, he won’t be there for you.”</p><p><em>And you’d be alone</em>, is what Beaver doesn’t say.</p><p>Again.</p><p>Oh, yeah, Jensen can’t avoid the deep-seated childhood trauma <em>now</em>. Beaver’s spent a lot of time dissecting how the physical absence of Jensen’s father and his mother’s mental one had affected him. That having relied on a caring brother until maturity left Jensen feeling unacknowledged abandonment when his brother died.</p><p>Fuck, Jensen realizes - he has two extremes, too, much like Padalecki. He either doesn’t let anyone in - because, hey, pain, and no, thank you, experienced enough of it - or he does, and he asks, demands, that the other person be as strong as Jensen needs them to be.</p><p>Because Jensen will break.</p><p><em>Has</em>, come to think of it. With Jared right beside him.</p><p>“Christ,” Jensen whispers on an exhale. The anger just goes out of him, as quickly as it had made its appearance.</p><p>Beaver consoles him. “This is about more than one thing, Sergeant Ackles, take your time with it.”</p><p>Jensen will.</p><p>But not because Beaver said so.</p><p>Because he doesn’t have a clue where to go from here. His thoughts are a tangled mess he doesn’t want to look at too closely, and fucking hell, being angry is so much easier, can’t they go back to Beaver telling him to punch things?</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>JARED </b>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>The rest of the day feels abrupt. Fractured.</p><p>It doesn’t help that they have a day of true <em>education</em>, slides, notebooks, pencils. Dark room, huge bright screen, metal tables, uniformed recruits. Method of teaching that has barely arrived in the current century.</p><p>Military History.</p><p>Tactics and Weaponry.</p><p>Theory. Examples. Lists. Invited speaker. The usuals. Jared speaking, mechanical, reciting. Listening. Supervising.</p><p>He tries to tune in to the day, to everything that surrounds him. But it’s hard, on days like these, to get out of his own head, to figure out that something else exists.</p><p>Going to the gun range doesn’t help. A run does.</p><p>Jensen sends him a funny meme.</p><p>Two soldiers in full gear sitting on a bench with a rocket launcher between them and a rifle. Looking in the distance, relaxed, like kids with their backpacks waiting for parent pick up. Caption: <em>War has a lot more sitting and waiting than I thought it would be</em>.</p><p>Jared wants to make a joke about head injuries and the fractured English.</p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>Just thinks about Jensen. Warmth – tentative, genuine, honest, spreads through him.</p><p>~</p><p>This feeling in Jared...emerging, undefinable, frightening. Of more.</p><p>Of hope, broken, molded into something never allowed to see the light in its true form, only simmering in the darkness. It flickers, stretching lazily, unearthed almost unwillingly.</p><p>Fragile, edges faintly familiar.</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>JENSEN</b>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>The rest of Jensen’s day goes smoothly. Mostly. In the time intervals he can concentrate.</p><p>He doesn’t get anyone killed.</p><p>He does, however, spend an inordinate amount of time staring at a random point in front of him, trying to figure out what Beaver was really saying. It’s times like these he wishes he were a smoker - at least he’d look a tad more intelligent, or at least, <em>busy</em>.</p><p>He thinks about the questions that Beaver woke gnawing at the back of his mind, now pushed ungraciously to the front.</p><p>Does he love Jared?</p><p>Yes. Probably. Maybe.</p><p>If he knew what love was.</p><p>There’s a joke in there about the song and hurting people, but Jensen’s not in the mood to search for it. He wonders if, instead of love, inside him there’s just the fear about not being alone.</p><p>A voice asks if he’s good.</p><p>It’s Welling.</p><p>He’d been the one to welcome Jensen to the Command Room, he’d told Jensen where he could sit, what kind of shit they were working with, <em>how</em> to work with, and around it. And all Jensen noticed while Welling was doing it did was how good he looked.</p><p>Not in the way Jared did. The slightest hint of exposed skin on Padalecki’s body would makes Jensen hard, instantly. And since he forgets to wear his shirt around the house so often, likes to stroll out of the shower fully naked - well, it’s a conditioning thing.</p><p>No, Welling looked…healthy. Rested. Chill.</p><p>Welling smiled, and fuck if it wasn’t genuine. The image that had come to Jensen was a flower field, and they were all wilted or wilting, and this guy was fresh and pristine. Which. Rare sight in their line of work.</p><p>Jensen smiles, nods in response to Welling’s question.</p><p>Strangely, even though he’s known the guy only for a few months, he thinks that sharing with him might be easy.  </p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>Instead, Jensen clocks out early and takes the work home with him. The reports can be written just as well in the silence of his and Jared’s kitchen. With a glass of whiskey.</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>JARED</b>
  </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p><p>When he comes back from his run, Jared finds Jensen at their kitchen table, working. It’s not the first time Jensen’s done that - finish paperwork at home - but for some reason, Jared didn’t think today would be one of those days.</p><p>He greets Jensen, who mumbles something like <em>hey</em>, and Jared heads for the sink, fills up a glass of water.</p><p>He leans on the countertop, tries to steady his heartbeat, hydrates, like a fully functional human, watching Jensen’s concentrated frown.</p><p>An idea springs to mind.</p><p>"Come on."</p><p>Jensen looks up from the laptop screen. It takes him a moment to focus on Jared.</p><p>"What?" he asks in a low tone, an afterthought, distracted.</p><p>Jared grins.</p><p>"Ackles, I’ve decided. We're going camping."</p><p>That gets Ackles' attention.</p><p>He stares at Jared for a second.</p><p>"The hell we are."</p><p>For a soldier that has gone without food for days, hidden in a rocky opening that could barely be called a cave, waiting for the right moment to strike; who has slept on dirty floors, marred with blood and other bodily fluids they don't like to think about - for someone who could literally be dropped anywhere on earth - North Pole, middle of the Amazonian Jungle, African desert, Los Angeles rush hour traffic - and still find his way back to civilization, plus-minus a scratch...well, for anyone who's all that, Jensen is surprisingly adamant about not spending more outdoor time than strictly necessary.</p><p><em>Bugs</em>, Jensen had argued once.</p><p>Right.</p><p>The relationship between them is built on half-stories - though this is one Jared doesn’t mind.</p><p>"Yes, we are," Jared insists, starting to pull at the hem of his t-shirt.</p><p>Jensen closes his laptop. Gears up to something resembling a fight.</p><p>Except it's not.</p><p>It's a game, Jared thinks.</p><p>Which is why he pulls off his t-shirt before continuing.</p><p>"It's 4th of July over the weekend, Jensen. I don't know about you, but I don't intend to be here for the fireworks."</p><p>Whoever had considered having a fireworks show on a base with PTSD-riddled soldiers on every corner was definitely not getting the 'Employee of the Month' award.</p><p>"Yes, but, <em>camping,</em>" Jensen retorts, only slightly distracted by Jared’s exposed skin.</p><p>Damn it.</p><p>Jared has few weapons to his name in a conversation with Jensen, it isn’t fair they stop working at random, like this.</p><p>He tries again.</p><p>"Sleeping under the stars."</p><p>Jensen raises an eyebrow.</p><p>"More like sleeping on the ground, with wayward rocks planning an attack on my internal organs."</p><p>"A, dramatic, Ackles,” Jared says, rolling his eyes. “And B, think about it. No one but us on a fifty-mile radius."</p><p>Jensen’s lips curve into a smirk. "That's either a brilliant or an insanely stupid idea."</p><p>"You know you want to find out which is it."</p><p>Jared’s sure of it.</p><p>Because he does, too. Wants to see if this thing between them will break or become stronger if they push it.</p><p>"Yes. It's exactly what I planned to do over the weekend."</p><p>A-ha!</p><p>Victory.</p><p>Jared knows that tone.</p><p>Milliseconds before Jensen's features soften into a smile, Jared knows what the answer is. Jensen transitions from looking at Jared like he's a crazy person to looking at him like he's…still a crazy person, but<em> his</em>.</p><p>Jared wonders how he got so lucky.</p><p>"You're packing all of our stuff," Jensen says, a look in his eyes that's somewhere between pity and mischief. “Tents, clothes, food.”</p><p>"Everything. Yes, I am," Jared replies quickly.</p><p>“Have you looked at the weather?”</p><p>“Clear skies, captain.”</p><p>Ackles rolls his eyes. “Cereal isn’t food,” he feels the need to add.</p><p>“Aye,” Jared answers dutifully.</p><p>“Not stopping with the pirate theme, I see.”</p><p>“It’s a mood, Jensen.”</p><p>It is.</p><p>Playful.</p><p>The silver lining of moments like this morning is that they leave Jared on a default setting, desperate to be something else than the rawest form of himself, fractured and defective.</p><p>Playful, the lightness of everything almost dizzying.</p><p>Jensen stares at him, part exasperation, and part fondness - his own default setting in his interactions with Jared. He shakes his head slightly, turning back to the computer. Looks at Jared out of the corner of his eye before opening it.</p><p>"You're going to watch me work?"</p><p>Jared shrugs. "Meditation."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Cortese says to spend time staying still. To see how I feel."</p><p>Jensen, despite himself, smiles.</p><p>"And how do you<em> feel</em>?" he asks Jared, stretching out the last word, the weight in sucking the air out of the room, makes it harder to breathe.</p><p>How, <em>what - </em>everything.</p><p>His sessions with Cortese have established Jared’s a man of extremes.</p><p>Right now he’s anxious. Hopeful. Thin strands keeping him barely anchored to rational. Scared. One day Jensen will stop looking at him like this. Home.</p><p>And that - on that thought - Jared realizes something. Maybe there is something to what Cortese is saying. Until now, Jared had defined what he feels with what Jensen is. <em>How</em> he is.</p><p>Feelings did not exist outside of the universe in which Jensen did.</p><p>Love, safety, anger, disappointment - he'd never truly felt any of it. Because he couldn't admit that it was all his.</p><p>Soldier. Jensen’s partner.</p><p>Other opposites.</p><p>Strong. Weak.</p><p>Jared likes to push aside anything he feels. The blank canvas is liberating. The illusion that he cannot be hindered by anything.</p><p>It worked in the field.</p><p>But here...in the quiet evening, where his thoughts reverberate against the words that are always missing - it doesn't seem enough. It feels like Jared's<em> thinking </em>of his life with Jensen, not living it.</p><p>The question becomes, then, if he can switch off this setting. If his brain even works the way it needs to be.</p><p>Not tonight, Jared decides.</p><p>So he just shakes his head, gathers the discarded t-shirt from the table and bends down to press a kiss on Jensen's forehead, hand gripping the nape of Jensen’s neck with a little more force than strictly necessary. He stops for a moment.</p><p>He hears Jensen breathing. Jared feels Jensen leaning into him.</p><p>"I love you," Jared whispers, low and soft, but no stutter, no uncertainty.</p><p>Jensen's reply is not automatic. It takes seconds. Few. Enough for the silence between them to expand the words, build the bridges they need.</p><p>"Love you too, Padalecki,” Jensen answers quietly. Then, stronger, after a few moments. “Now go shower. Running’s healthy, but not to my nostrils."</p><p>Jared pulls back a bit to look at Jensen. He raises a questioning eyebrow.</p><p>Jensen’s playing, too.</p><p>“Ten minutes.”</p><p>“Hm?” Jared asks, a bit distracted by the intense look in Jensen’s eyes.</p><p>“Ten minutes, and I’m joining.”</p><p>It’s a challenge.</p><p>And Jared’s in the right mood for it.</p><p>“I’ll be waiting,” he promises.</p><p>
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</p><p>They’re going camping.</p><p>Of course they are.</p><p>Jensen had craved <em>silence</em>. Then your partner barges in, distracting you with rock hard abs under tanned skin and arms, slim but muscles outlined so precisely that Jensen’s torn between tracing the ridges with his fingers or his tongue - either is fine, really.</p><p>Frankly, he’s proud of himself just for not outright drooling.</p><p>See?</p><p>Jared’s training him.</p><p>For that reason only, he pushes through the last lines of his report before rewarding himself, makes Jared wait for him.</p><p>They might have not figured out talking yet, but this - oh, this - this part of them is working properly.</p><p>~</p><p>The next morning comes easily - they’re quiet, eerily so, no nightmares as alarm clocks. It’s Routine. Normal.</p><p>Jared smiles at Jensen before he leaves. A bit forced.</p><p>For some reason, it annoys Jensen.</p><p>He says goodbye, and thinks about the day ahead of him.</p><p>The missions he needs to supervise, the reports he has to write, the Captain Morgan-imposed meeting.</p><p>Christ, he isn’t ready.</p><p>He can feel it - the kind of day that nothing works out just right. Or maybe it’s his mood at fault.</p><p>Either way, as he enters the Command Room and greets Welling, his coworker looks at him, opens his mouth, then quickly closes it again, raising his hands in surrender.</p><p>Great.</p><p>Jensen’s mastered nonverbal communication - <em>alienation</em> - skills.</p><p>
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</p><p>Thing is, Jared saw this coming.</p><p>He’d tried to convince himself that the earlier outbursts were all that was needed, but in truth - he knew you don’t disarm a bomb with a minute to go on the clock with kitchen mittens. You have to take the risk, give yourself the freedom to acknowledge that it may all be ending. And then, only then, you’ll know whether you want to live or die, whether you want to lay down or fight for it.</p><p>Jensen comes home from his <em>Soldiers Anonymous </em>meeting, finds Jared in the bedroom, laptop in his lap, reading up on latest Army technology. Jensen nods in his direction as he enters, gives him a weak smile and a barely audible <em>hello </em>followed by <em>shower </em>and a finger pointed to the bathroom door.</p><p>Jared chuckles softly.</p><p>He knows how it is, the wish to just wash the day off you, to fall back into yourself with nothing else demanding that you be something. He watches Jensen discarding his t-shirt and pants and follows the movement until the door to the bathroom closes behind him. Then he returns to reading.</p><p><em>Chinese businesses and military are monitoring employee brain activity and emotions</em>, one article says. <em>The emotional surveillance technology helps identify mood shifts so they can change break times, tasks…increases productivity...effect is clear. </em></p><p>Right.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>
  <em>Advances in self-steering bullets technology. Autonomous combat vehicles. </em>
</p><p>Jared thinks about his early days in the field. The difference. He makes a note to ask Morgan and the powers that be how much of it is actually real, and in play, and recommendations for tactical improvement based on their own technology. It’s strange - he’s never enjoyed school, or studying - but this - this is <em>interesting</em>. This, surprisingly, has the element that he’s missed most from the field: creativity. Decision-making. Difficult-to-insurmountable problem, meet Sergeant Padalecki.</p><p>He’s grateful for Morgan trusting him with it.</p><p>The sound of the shower stopping breaks Jared out of his musings.</p><p>Jensen gets out of the bathroom followed by a trail of steamy fog, only a towel wrapped around his hips.</p><p>Jared grins.</p><p>He has a hard time concentrating on what he's reading. On…well, anything. Jensen's presence demands, involuntarily, attention Jared simply can't put into anything else when his partner's around.</p><p>He closes down the laptop and slides it on the nightstand, leans back on the headboard, settles in to look at Jensen walking to the dresser and pulling out a new pair of dark boxers and a t-shirt.</p><p>"I'm sending Morgan my physical therapy bill," Jensen says, more or less crashing on the edge of the bed. He's only got a towel around his hips, and Jared can see droplets of water on his back, between freckles and faded bruises and scars. “Those plastic chairs are killing my back.”</p><p>"The meeting?" Jared asks, unashamedly watching as the towel drops, taking in every inch of Jensen - tall, lean, strong, body that seems made to Jared's tastes exactly, fitting every nook and cranny of Jared's own perfectly when they touch, making Jared yearn for it, <em>wanting</em>.</p><p>Jensen nods, back is turned to Jared.</p><p>“I swear to God, kids these days.”</p><p>Jared raises an eyebrow, and even though Jensen doesn’t see, he continues unprompted. “Young officer asked me when we are soldiers and when we aren’t. What being a soldier means.”</p><p>“Your normal identity crisis.”</p><p>Jensen huffs out a tired laugh. “He said he was in a store that got some unpleasant customers the other day. Threatened the cashier for something or other they didn’t like. And he didn’t know whether to intervene or not.”</p><p>Jared ponders that.</p><p>“How young is he?” he asks.</p><p>Jensen shrugs, motion smooth as he gets up to finish dressing. Jared wouldn’t be upset if he didn’t get to the putting on boxers part of it.</p><p>But.</p><p>Serious discussion.</p><p>He forces himself to look above Jensen’s waistline.</p><p>“Don’t know. Green, definitely,” Jensen answers.</p><p>“What’d you say?”</p><p>“That doing the right thing is complicated.”</p><p>“Cop-out,” Jared laughs.</p><p>Jensen raises his head, band of his boxers snapping on his skin. Hands come to his hips.</p><p>“What would you have said?”</p><p>It’s a genuine question, except - there’s an edge, annoyance slipping into Jensen’s tone seemingly unwillingly.</p><p>“That you are who you are both in, and out of the field.”</p><p>On some level, Jared knows it isn’t the right answer, not if they want a quiet evening. But an appeasing answer has no worth, so he goes with honesty.</p><p>Jensen huffs. “Of course, you’d say that.”</p><p>“You don’t agree?”</p><p>“I think - “ Jensen starts, then stops for the briefest moment. Inhales. “I think doing the right thing doesn’t always mean getting involved. And - ” he continues before Jared has a chance to respond, “you don’t always have to be <em>on</em>.”</p><p>Jared doesn’t agree.</p><p>“How is letting someone badger a cashier doing the right thing?”</p><p>“Protecting store clerks from entitled clients isn’t in the soldier’s job description, Padalecki.”</p><p>“Seemed like more than that,” Jared counters, not oblivious to the fact that Jensen’s replies are steadily climbing the ladder from neutral to scathing. Current position: somewhere close to the middle.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Jensen admits. “But I’m not advocating for doing nothing while others are in danger. Just saying that you need to be smart about it.”</p><p>“Me?”</p><p>Jensen rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Probably,” he says, somewhat dismissively. “I’m sure in that kind of situation, you’d find a way to be the hero.”</p><p>Taken apart, the words are simple. One might even think that Jensen’s reply is a compliment.</p><p>It’s not.</p><p>“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same,” Jared replies, sitting up. Button pressed, gearing on for a fight. “Physical weapon in the equation, or weapons, tell me you’d stand and watch.”</p><p>“That’s what you think of me?” Jensen asks, incredulous look in his eyes.</p><p>No. That’s exactly the point.</p><p>But Jared doesn’t get the chance to rectify, to repeat the first part of his reply for Jensen to actually hear it.</p><p>“Just because I wouldn’t stand between a stranger and a bullet doesn’t mean that I would do nothing.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t?” Jared asks, surprised.</p><p>Jensen digs his feet in. Looks at Jared, expression pained. “Probably not.”</p><p>“Every life’s worth saving,” Jared says, summing up the myriad of thoughts running through his mind.</p><p>“Including yours and mine.”</p><p>“Yeah, but - “</p><p>Jensen interrupts him. He raises a hand. “I just - let’s stop. This is not going anywhere good.”</p><p>Of course it isn’t.</p><p>But Jared is not famous for knowing when to stop pushing.</p><p>“No, this is important,” he presses on. “I can’t believe - “</p><p>“Can’t believe what, Jay? That I want to live? Can’t seem to get it through your head, getting injured, hell, <em>dying - </em>it ain’t the only way to be a hero.”</p><p>How do they always end up at extremes?</p><p>“No, I’m saying - “</p><p>“I don’t know why I thought…I thought your answer would be different. Given everything that’s happened.”</p><p>Jared purses his lips in frustration. Slides forward on the bed.</p><p>Finger start yearning for a cigarette, for a crutch that he can hold on to when Jensen’s looking at him like this, disappointed.</p><p>“It’s a hypothetical situation, Jensen. It’s a hypothetical answer. I didn’t say I would be stepping in front of the first bullet I could find, just…”</p><p>He trails off.</p><p>He doesn’t know how to continue.</p><p>In truth, Jared’s always found the answers to these questions easy. Giving it all in the field was just a part of him, <em>the only one</em>, there wasn’t anything beside it.</p><p>But now it isn’t.</p><p>“I know,” Jensen sighs. “I know…but that doesn’t change that you still don’t think about those around you. About how your decisions affect them.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Jared’s genuinely surprised. He thinks ahead.</p><p>But -</p><p>Oh, Christ, they’re back to what they’re always getting stuck in: he is who he is.</p><p>And that’s when Jared gets angry.</p><p>“You know what, Ackles?” Jared spits out, getting off the bed. He doesn’t get in Jensen’s face, keeps his distance - but not because he doesn’t want to do it. “I’m getting kinda tired of you putting all this on me.”</p><p>It’s Jensen’s turn to look confused at the change in conversation dynamic. He opens his mouth to say something. Then closes it. Confusion easily slides into irritation.</p><p>“I’m not putting anything on you. I’m just stating some facts.”</p><p>“Facts,” Jared repeats evenly. “You can’t let it go, can you?”</p><p>Jensen doesn’t seem comfortable with his own answer, but he gives it, deciding, seemingly, that this is the night to be truly honest about his feelings.</p><p>“No, I can’t,” he admits. “I’m tired, Jared. I’m exhausted because I’m always thinking…I’m always wondering what will be the next thing wrong with you.”</p><p>Jared doesn’t hear the continuation, <em>...and how I can do absolutely nothing. </em></p><p>Jensen’s words cut through like a knife, hitting deep, bullseye on Jared’s insecurities.</p><p>He struggles to come back to the conversation.</p><p>Fight or flight.</p><p>Neither is a good option.</p><p>He goes with the first, even though instinct sends him running.</p><p>“Maybe if you didn’t concentrate so much on me, you’d figure out your own shit better, Ackles,” Jared says, not really knowing if it was his turn to speak, if Jensen’s still there, if he’s listening, if the words coming out of his mouth are the ones he believes.</p><p>But he looks at his partner. Challenges him.</p><p>Jensen raises to it.</p><p>“Yeah, therapy’s going so well for you,” he throws out around a laugh with no humor in it. “That’s why eight mornings out of ten, you wake up almost screaming.”</p><p>“At least I don’t go punching people.”</p><p>Jared’s reply is short, pointed, and he knows it does maximum damage.</p><p>He sees it in Jensen’s eyes, the instant guilt there, the way he’s beating himself up for it. Jared wants to stop. But some part of him, something malicious, suddenly devoid of empathy, nags at him to continue.</p><p>“Throwing things, covering the bathroom tiles with blood and saying - listen to me, Jensen - you said <em>nothing</em>, just…broke down - and left me to pick up the pieces - and you’re saying - you’re actually saying that I’m making it about me? That the fact that I don’t tell you every little detail about how my father beat me, or I don’t recount Chad’s death in vivid details - you think that’s because I don’t want sympathy?”</p><p>“No, you want to be tough. Strong,” Jensen replies, mocking. “And guess what, you aren’t. People still have to take care of you.”</p><p>“Did I ask you?”</p><p>“Ask what?”</p><p>“To take care of me,” Jared answers, fists clenching at his side, barely refraining from not yelling. No, this…yelling, screaming at Jensen, that would be too simple.</p><p>It’s quieter.</p><p>It’s more important to use a tone of voice that masks the depth of its ramifications.</p><p>Jensen stays silent.</p><p>“I didn’t ask you to love me, Ackles. There’s the door if you want it,” Jared breathes out, pinning Jensen with his gaze.</p><p>Jensen just looks at him.</p><p>Surprised.</p><p>Angry.</p><p>Right hand comes up, fist clenched, and he grimaces - it’s not about hitting Jared. It never was. It’s a gesture of helplessness, of too many things threatening to spill out, of knowing that they don’t matter, because they’re two sides to the same story, <em>perspectives</em>, truths that they can’t piece together, even though they try to, desperately.</p><p>“Fuck you, Jared,” Jensen says on an exhale, and it’s there again, the pain, the disappointment, the exasperation, resentment - <em>eveything</em>. “Just - fuck you.”</p><p>He ends it there.</p><p>Jensen picks up a pair of jeans from the floor, grabs his phone, and stalks out.</p><p>Jared doesn’t follow him.</p><p>He hears the jangle of keys in the hallway, the sound of boots on the tiles, and the front door, opening and closing.</p><p><em>Flight</em>.</p><p>It’s welcome. It’s expected. It’s a reprieve.</p><p>The only thing is, Jared doesn’t know whether it’s what he wanted.</p><p>He doesn’t even know if he was right in what he was saying.</p><p>It felt like it.</p><p>It felt like they were finally getting at the core issue: Jensen resenting him for what he is. Broken soldier riddled with PTSD, anxiety, and a choice catalogue of other issues. But on the same level, Jensen, closing off, leaving Jared on the outside on the most important things.</p><p>Jensen’s the strong one.</p><p>Jared’s…</p><p>Jared’s the one with issues.</p><p>He rubs a trembling hand over his face, falling on the edge of the bed.</p><p>
  <em>Sit with your feelings.</em>
</p><p>Jared wants to laugh.</p><p>There are so many of them.</p><p>So foreign.</p><p>So are the tears.</p><p>
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</p><p>Maybe, <em>probably </em>- it isn’t a good idea to get out his frustrations using either anger or alcohol, but here Jensen is, sitting at the bar at the Devil’s Own, on a Friday evening, with the sad sacks that have no one to go home to. And isn’t that the kicker. His greatest fear is being truly alone, and here he is, alienating anyone who tries to be close to him.</p><p>There are so many things going through his mind.</p><p>A special kind of rage that edges closer to desperation, a simmering liquid stuck in his chest, threatening to spill over either in a punch or tears.</p><p>Guilt.</p><p>Questions that don’t have answers, that Jensen feels he’s losing through his fingertips any time he tries to grasp their meaning.</p><p>Clearing all thoughts from his mind, purposefully letting it be a blank canvas, a tarp over all the shit he buries, Jensen hears his name.</p><p>“Ackles,” his former teammate Aldis thunders from a table in the back, “you’re with us.”</p><p>Jensen doesn’t really have the energy to contest that.</p><p>As he walks to the table, he sees out who else is there: Steve, Speight, Osric.</p><p>“Hey,” Jensen greets as he approaches.</p><p>Steve nods. Speight raises his beer glass. Osric is entirely too enthusiastic for him to be sober.</p><p>“Jensen! Hello!”</p><p>Right.</p><p>Jensen grins. He looks around for an empty table to borrow a chair from. He finds one quickly, drags the closest chair to the table with his fellow soldiers.</p><p>“Celebrating?” he asks, placing his seat between Aldis and Speight.</p><p>Aldis shakes his head.</p><p>“Just getting drunk.”</p><p>True that.</p><p>Jensen laughs and orders himself a beer.</p><p>The table cheers, the waitress smiles at him, and Aldis gives him a friendly pat on the back.</p><p>Easy. Light.</p><p>So different than what he’s come from.</p><p>That is, until everyone gets <em>too </em>drunk.</p><p>Jensen half-listens as they run through anecdotes, half of them about missions after he was gone, some about ones he was one. Some are about Sergeant Padalecki’s exploits before Jensen was part of the team.</p><p>“Remember that time…” Steve chortles. “That time you almost killed me and Chris?”</p><p>That’s directed at Jensen.</p><p>And, yeah, Jensen remembers, even though he’d rather not. He lets his head down in embarrassment.</p><p>“It was his second mission, Carlson, chill,” Aldis says, taking a swig of his beer around a smile. Then, after a pause, mischievous. “Besides, not his fault the tree grew right where he threw the grenade.”</p><p>The whole table erupts in laughter.</p><p>Jensen puts a hand over his face.</p><p>Oh, Jesus.</p><p>Throwing a grenade into a tree, and having it ricochet back right to where you’re standing - not the smartest thing. Thank God for Chris and his quick reflexes - he had kicked the offending item into next week a second before it exploded.</p><p>“Part of the job, though,” Speight intervenes, a tad more serious than the current vibe at the table, playing with his fingers on the rim of his glass. He looks over at all of them,  a quick assessment of the table, searching for something. “I remember Padalecki jumping in a spot five clicks away from the target when he started out as team leader. It was a joint mission, I’ll never forget that radio in - <em>I’m here - No, you’re not - I definitely am - Can’t fucking see you, Padalecki - Then fucking look harder, Speight - </em>” he recounts, perfectly imitating Jared’s voice and stubbornness, “and then, the Murray kid, pitching in, like announcing the weather, <em>You know, boss, there might have been a miscalculation</em>.”</p><p>The occupants of the table start to smile.</p><p>Including Jensen.</p><p>He didn’t know this one.</p><p>“And then -” Speight continues, and part of the fun in it is that even though he’s trying to keep a straight face, there are cracks in his expressions, hints of grins that threaten to spill into laughter. “Silence. For a good two minutes.”</p><p>Aldis bursts into laughter first.</p><p>“There was attempted murder,” he says.</p><p>Steve nods, thoroughly amused himself. “I thought he’d leave Murray right there, in the desert.”</p><p>Speight laughs - loud, genuine.</p><p>“All I got at the other end was the approximate ETA,” he answers, still chuckling. “Boy, did we use those hours well…”</p><p>Steve raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“Taking the piss out of our incompetence?”</p><p>“Your m<em>istake</em>, but…yes,” Speight replies, eyes bright and happy.</p><p>It feels weird to be sitting at a table with them again. Comfortable, and yet…not.</p><p>Speight’s a pleasant presence, not like he’d hinted at during that infamous get-together at Chris’ house, when Jensen had first joined the team. Then, he’d seemed like a homophobic asshole. Tonight, Jensen finds out he’s pretty far from that.</p><p>Aldis...he was the class clown. Easiest going, lighthearted even under pressure, especially then, the guy that saved your life while winking at you, dropping some cheesy line.</p><p>Then later, Osric...quiet kid. Stereotypical introvert of the technical background he had. Lively, knowledgeable and eager to share if you got past the first impression, and asked.</p><p>Steve. If asked for a single word, everyone would say...even. That would be Jensen's guess. Describe Steve: calm, calculated, almost rigid in his approach - if Jared seemed to bend to avoid the proverbial blows missions threw at him, Steve stood still, let everything come at him, like an old tree, too big, too rooted in for anything to affect it. But there was another side to him. Cold, prickling anger, rage, that painted everything in black and white. That was Steve's biggest downfall: he'd make no compromises.</p><p>And Chris – fiery, forceful, red hot strength and a lack of tolerance for bullshit that Jensen found intimidating when they first met.</p><p>Chris, who’d managed to beat Padalecki at the self-sacrificial race. His mind starts to picture that scene and Jensen forces himself to shut it down, to shove his focus back to the conversation at hand.</p><p>But his mind goes back, because the reverberations echo into the present. It still seems to Jensen like part of Jared never left that moment, that his partner searches for a way to top it, to assuage the guilt by something even crazier, even more self-destructive. Like letting himself get captured. Like spending days getting tortured, and believing, that yeah, he deserved it.</p><p>Jensen claws his way back from the edges of that particular spiral. All he ever finds at the end of it is desperation, and that’s what he came here to get rid of. He forces himself to enjoy the night faraway from those thoughts.</p><p>Though - as much as things stay the same, they change, too - and in significant ways.</p><p>Aldis, usually the life of the party, last one to give up the good times, leaves first, to get back to his pregnant wife. Osric is laid out in a nearby booth, bucket to his side, sleeping soundly. Speight’s talking up the bartender.</p><p>But, all in all, it’s been decent. That is, until Steve brings up the break-up of the team, and Padalecki.</p><p>"It's easier to forgive you quitting than him," Steve says, bringing the bottle of beer to his mouth, rim almost touching his lips. He stops before taking a drink. "I've known you for less time."</p><p>Jensen doesn't know how to answer that.</p><p>Steve takes the decision of a reply out of his hands, sliding the empty beer bottle to the edge of the table, making space to lean in. He crosses his arms, shifts his whole body forward, a somewhat awkward move that lets Jensen know this should be Steve's last beer.</p><p>"...shit hit the fan," Steve's voice drags Jensen out of his thoughts. "And shit hits the fan so fucking...all the time. I didn't realize that. I mean, I did, when Padalecki did it, but he had this...conviction. He was so sure of himself, that kind of trust that what he's doing, it'll work, you know? The craziest shit. And hearing him say it, you believed. Hell, if he asked you to move to the north pole for a month, live on water and protein bars, you'd ask, when do you leave, and do you have to bring your own ice pick."</p><p>He stops, looks at Jensen like he's trying to will him to understand.</p><p>It's not easy. Steve's not making a lot of sense. Some. But Jensen would still like to buy a clue.</p><p>"Anyway. Last story I told you? About Padelecki?”</p><p>Oh, yeah. The one before Speight’s. Some incoherent tale of a mission gone irreversibly bad, except - Jared. Jared pulling a hail Mary, and getting all of them home safe, in time for Steve’s daughter dance recital.</p><p>It’s the stuff movies are made of.</p><p>“Gather a dozen soldiers and you'll get a dozen more...he's, like...shit, I don't know. But he's more than human. That's always how it seemed. Not only to these recruits, wet behind the ears, but to everyone who worked with him. Everything bounced off him."</p><p>Yeah, Jensen knows. This, he understands. The appeal of a leader like Jared is the aura of invincibility, of someone who bullets don't touch, bombs don't dare go off near. The competence, the ability to make you think you'll get home - and in one piece - even in the most dire of circumstances.</p><p>Jensen remembers their first mission. The first real one.</p><p>Watching Jared get up like nothing happened after being shot, taking out the bullet himself like it was a splinter, and continuing on, a blip on the radar that barely even registered with Sergeant Padalecki.</p><p>So, yeah. Steve's right. Gather a dozen soldiers...</p><p>"'s why I'm so angry at him, Jensen," Steve continues, fist clenching on the table. He's not slurring his words, rather biting them, keeping half for himself, tone rising and falling to his own tune, inflections unnatural, accusations left suspended, storm in the air above them brewing, crackling, each word a current, innocent until it meets Jensen's thoughts, until the true meaning settles, crashes into the reality of what had happened.</p><p>Steve leans back, no less intensity in his eyes. A lopsided grin, no humor behind it. "The hell kind of soldier is he if he lets some broken fingers take him out of the field?" Steve asks, and Jensen's knee jerk reaction is to step in, argue, but Steve hits the table with his clenched fist before Jensen can say anything.</p><p>The glasses clatter on the table. Steve unclenches his fist, both him and Jensen watching his hand, Jensen to assess the threat level, Steve like he suddenly discovered the secrets of the universe on his the back of his hand. He outstretches his fingers, flattens his palm on the dark brown surface, soft gesture somehow meant to attenuate the harshness of the one before.</p><p>"I'm not saying - fuck, I'm saying - I'm angry at him for getting hurt, for making that decision...for not snapping back like he always did," Steve continues, focusing on his fingers, splayed on the table. "For leaving us to figure it out."</p><p>Okay, this - suddenly Jensen understands. Hell, he's an expert on the topic. For Steve, it's a decision, an event, a single moment in time. Padalecki abandoned him.</p><p>Steve's the one who'd been behind the shield of Jared's conviction that he can make his own rules, and the universe would follow them, just like the team did. As strange as Jensen finds it, given the age difference, with a plus on Steve's side - Steve was the kid relying on the all-powerful, invincible parent...and when Jared left him, well, he only had one option. A first step. Anger.</p><p>Steve had been left alone. He’d had to make his own decisions. The responsibility would no longer be shared with anyone.</p><p>The parallel is not lost on Jensen.</p><p>The way his brother left him.</p><p>And why he can’t trust Padalecki will stay either.</p><p>But then again - Jensen's...well, he's tired of seeing Sergeant Padalecki, of not seeing Jared enough.</p><p>Because it's Jared he loves.</p><p>And it's not that stupid, crazy rush from the first days, months. The excitement. The searing hot, almost painful desire coursing through him every time he saw Padalecki.</p><p>No.</p><p>This is soft. When all is said and done, when the walls come crashing down and the debris is cleared out...whole means him and Jared, on the couch, Jared's head in his lap, Jensen's hand around his shoulders, dozing, half asleep, watching the first <em>Die Hard</em> movie for the thousandth time.</p><p>Home is where Jared holds him up in the shower, when Jensen's outside himself, and thinks he'll never be back again. Where Jared stays, even when Jensen makes a mistake...when he hurts Jared, when he gives Jared all the reasons why Jensen isn't the man worthy of his love. Even when everyone around Jensen left, because Jensen wasn't enough, Jared stays, even when Jensen can see that Jared wants to run.</p><p>So Jensen's tired. What does it matter? This, their fights. Steve. Arguing. Trying to convince him. It's never been about a misunderstanding. It's about a conclusion Steve needs to come to, a realization, for him to be the leader the team needs him to be.</p><p>Just like Jensen needs to figure his own shit out.</p><p>He isn't going to achieve it tonight, with three beers in him and one more picked off the waitress's tray nonchalantly before she has the chance to put it down.</p><p>Maybe in the morning.</p><p>Frankly, Jensen doesn't really care.</p><p>Steve's gotta do it on his own, rise to the challenge. As harsh as it is...that’s what leaders are made out of. So Jensen takes the last swig of his own beer, slaps a twenty on the table, grabs his jacket and leaves.</p><p>He sees Steve shaking his head out of the corner of his eye as he passes him, hears the humorless chuckle on the way out.</p><p>He thinks Jensen can’t stand it.</p><p>Jensen grins, too, when the crisp air hits him. But it's genuine.</p><p>For the first time, he sees it clearly.</p><p>He understands what he and Jared have been fighting about.</p><p>He understands that the man he loves isn’t Sergeant Padalecki, military legend and creature of myth. He loves Jared - the flawed human. The one that can have different views from Jensen and still love him. Who is willing to put up with his special brand of brokenness.</p><p>It’d hurt, hearing the words from Jared.</p><p>The acknowledgement he’d noticed when Jensen had broken down. That he remembers it.</p><p>It’s Jensen who’s missing the point.</p><p>Jared was there.</p><p>And he still is.</p><p>Not crumbling.</p><p>With as many broken pieces as before, not less, not more.</p><p>Jared isn’t leaving.</p><p>Hadn’t when Jensen had come home barely alive, hadn’t run for the hills to escape the pain of seeing him like that, like Jensen knows Jared wanted to.</p><p>He did go when Jensen told him about quitting the team.</p><p>But he came back.</p><p>He came back. Willing. As open as they have managed to be.</p><p>It’s not perfect by all means.</p><p>But it is their life.</p><p>Once they were separate persons. Now, after everything, they’re shattered, a million pieces spread on the ground, and they try to pick them up, but neither of them know which pieces are theirs.  </p><p>~</p><p>
  <em>Are we still going camping tomorrow? </em>
</p><p>Minutes before an answer comes, though it shows the message has been read.</p><p>Jensen, sitting in his car, driver’s seat, in the dark, phone light only beacon.</p><p>
  <em>Yes. </em>
</p><p>Jared answers simply.</p><p>Jensen’s tired of pushing, of making it harder than it needs to be.</p><p>Maybe this is what they needed. To get it out of their systems. To go through it, rather than around.</p><p>Jensen isn’t sure.</p><p>And has no guarantee.</p><p>He wants certainties - that Jared’s okay, that he can let himself fall from time to time, and the world won’t end - but there are none.</p><p>Beaver had asked him if he loves Jared.</p><p>Jensen knows the answer now - he does. Unwaveringly.</p><p>Because no matter how hard it is, no matter how upset he is at Jared, there’s something that pulls him back, brings to the forefront images of Jared smiling, of Jared saying <em>I love you</em>, of Jared kissing him, and feelings, emotions he’d never felt before, of being <em>home</em>, truly, completely, right where he should be.</p><p>~</p><p>Often, they think about the bad things. The ones they don't like in each other. That they don't understand. The ones they do, too well, and which they can't separate from their own failings, and they let out in bursts of anger and anxiety.</p><p>But they never think about this.</p><p>Jensen begins to.</p><p>He comes home to find Jared in the dark, on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees and head resting on his knuckles. He turns towards Jensen when he hears him step into the bedroom.</p><p>There’s no particular expression on his face.</p><p>He looks depleted of emotions.</p><p>Surprisingly, it’s not a bad thing.</p><p>Jensen stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, gazed locked with Jared’s.</p><p>When he left, it’d seemed like so many things were unsaid.  </p><p>Now, he can’t find any.</p><p>Jared does.</p><p>He says, <em>I’m sorry</em>.</p><p>Soft, barely a whisper, but a level tone.</p><p>Jensen’s own thoughts echoed in a few syllables.</p><p>He goes to sit down beside Jared. Brings his hand to cup the side of Jared’s face, thumb rubbing at his temple. He watches the intensity in hazel eyes, the conviction.</p><p>Jensen doesn’t know why he didn’t trust Jared to not give up when it got hard.</p><p>Time and time again, he fought to show Jensen he’s someone worth loving.</p><p>Jensen pulls him into a hug - a tad awkward given their positions, but it’s more about being close, about the warmth he feels when he sinks into Padalecki’s body.</p><p>Their fight had been an earthquake at the bottom of the ocean.</p><p>This is the calm <em>after </em>the tsunami, if such a thing exists. Most of their shit’s in shambles - emotionally, at least.</p><p>And Jensen can’t fucking find it in him at this moment to care, because being in Jared’s presence is all he needs.</p><p>They stay like that an inordinate amount of time, until Jared decides the perfect end to their evening is to <em>yippee ki yay </em>through it, possibly to recover some pretense that they were once professional badasses. An entirely unoriginal idea as far as spending their nights go, but Jensen couldn’t think of anything better, so Silent <em>Die</em> <em>Hard </em>marathon it is.  </p><p>They don’t even make it to the end of the first movie.</p><p>Jensen falls asleep well before the credits, thinking how much this moment means. Jared asleep with his head on Jensen's chest, Jensen's fingers through his short hair, the feeling of utter and complete comfort. The softness. The deep sleep Jared falls into.</p><p>How rare that is.</p><p>How Jensen’s the one that makes him feel like this.</p><p>Something that Jared does should not bolster confidence in Jensen - but it does. Because it goes to show him that he isn’t the weak one in the relationship. The soft one, the quitter, the romantic - choosing a domestic life over dying in a blaze of glory.</p><p>Or chopped to bits by helicopter rotors.</p><p>It’s a 50/50 thing.</p><p>The fact that Padalecki trusts him like this - that someone like him finds safety in Jensen - <em>well, Sergeant Ackles, what’s that telling you, huh? </em></p><p><em>Sergeant Padalecki sees you as someone at least as strong as he is, someone he can lean on - fully</em>.</p><p>Beaver’s words echo in his mind over the sounds coming from the TV.</p><p>But the therapist is only half right.</p><p>Jared doesn’t do human interaction <em>fully</em>.</p><p>Lurking in the shadows, there are always parts of himself he doesn’t give. Jensen sees them. <em>Feels</em>, rather.</p><p>Except this.</p><p>And yesterday morning.</p><p>Staying seconds more than instinct tells him.</p><p>They’re worth more than the seconds in which Jared decides to close off from him. And, Jensen thinks, they’re worth enough that Jensen share his own, unabridged, unfiltered.</p>
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